


Fickle Finger of Fate

by Hippediva



Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Angst, Humor/Parody, Humour, Hurt/Comfort, Pain, massive silliness, mild spew factor at one point, preslash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-08-20
Updated: 2001-08-20
Packaged: 2017-10-08 05:19:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/73106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hippediva/pseuds/Hippediva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Co-written with Ivyblue.  We decided that the concept of Padawan/Pain had to be examined under a different sort of microscope. Any more information will spoil the story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fickle Finger of Fate

**Author's Note:**

> NC-17 for self-abuse
> 
> Feedback: Is the breath of life.....we love it!! Briony: [Hippediva@aol.com](mailto:Hippediva@aol.com) &amp; IvyBlue: [ivyblue@celticweb.com](mailto:ivyblue@celticweb.com)

Obi-Wan arched backward, his head nearly touching the wall.  
The water played over his body in a pounding spray, silvering  
his flesh against the ice-blue tiles of the 'fresher walls.  
The muscles of his left arm strained against the bonds that  
held him tethered to the towel rack. He closed his eyes  
against the surf-spray of the water.

He concentrated on feeling Qui-Gon's hands hard against his  
slick skin. Blue eyes narrowing, then dilated. Fingers  
bruising against the tender flesh of his inner thigh. A hand  
nearly as large as his head grabbing hold of his hair, lips  
crushing his own, drawing blood. He felt light-headed,  
spluttering for breath against the shower spray, his own  
sweat hotter than the humid air.

"Touch yourself. Let me see you." His Master's voice growling  
low in his ear.

He ached. His legs ached from stretching upwards on his toes.  
His arm ached, stretched up and back over his head. His cock,  
hard against his palm, just ached.

"Padawan?"

The muscles in his thighs were beginning to spasm.

"Padawan!?"

He was close, so close he could taste it --

"PADAWAN!!"

His breath was coming in short, shallow gasps. But why was  
Qui-Gon shouting? That wasn't part of this fantasy.

Shit!

"PADAWAN, WHAT IN SITH HELLS ARE YOU DOING IN THERE!?"

He spiraled back down into reality at double-time. Damn,  
damn, damn, and damn again!!! Frantically, he struggled to  
get his wrist untied from the towel-bar, but the terry cloth  
tie to his robe was soaking wet and it stuck in the knots,  
making horrible grindy-squeaky noises that grated on his ears  
like nails on a slate. He could hear Qui-Gon moving around  
the common room, getting uncomfortably close to the 'fresher  
door. Had he locked it? He couldn't remember -- such details  
had been the last thing on his mind as he'd prepared to enjoy  
Qui-Gon's absence by indulging in this latest fantasy one  
last time before tomorrow's mission. Panic robbed him of his  
characteristic grace, and any ability to concentrate and  
harness the Force on his own behalf. At the moment, he was  
just another horny, humiliated teenager, about-to-be-caught  
in the act.

Toes scrabbled on wet tile and water ran stingingly in his  
eyes as he strained to turn his body toward the towel bar.  
Unbalanced as he was, both mentally and physically, it took  
nothing more than a stray sliver of soap, eddying innocently  
underfoot, to send him crashing in an undignified heap on the  
floor of the stall. He was in pain, mortally embarrassed, and  
excruciatingly unsatisfied... but at least he was free of the  
towel bar. In fact, so was the wall, as the towel bar lay in  
two splintered sections, one still attached to his aching  
wrist by the sodden remains of his bathrobe tie. Worse, there  
was a splinter at least an inch long jammed in the sensitive  
pad of the third finger of his right hand.

Cursing, Obi-Wan tried to sit up, mentally cataloguing the  
collection of bruises that would no doubt be visible come  
morning. The splinter pushed further into his finger as he  
attempted to haul himself upright. The door swung open. So,  
he hadn't locked it after all.

Qui-Gon raised an eyebrow at the sight of his beached  
Padawan. Obi-Wan's struggles to hide the evidence still  
adorning his left arm were not lost on him. "Sparring with  
the towel bar, Obi-Wan? It appears to have bested you."

Shaking his head as his Padawan gaped wordlessly up at him,  
Qui-Gon silently closed the 'fresher door.

  
       
  

  


An hour later, over a painfully silent meal, Obi-Wan  
struggled to keep from turning the same colour as the k'alla  
berries on the table. Qui-Gon's unexpressed amusement left  
Obi-Wan with no doubt that his Master knew exactly what he  
had been up to. His refusal to remark on it was even worse.  
He could only pray that Qui-Gon had not discerned his own  
starring role in Obi-Wan's ill-fated production.

His answers to Qui-Gon's mild conversation were monosyllabic  
sounds worthy of a Hutt with a hangover. He kept his head  
down and only grunted when his Master asked him a direct  
question. The questions were unbearably hard.

Things like, please pass the bread.

He reached for the bowl of sliced bread and yelped as the  
pressure drew a drop of blood to his wounded finger.

"What is it, Padawan?"

"Nothing."

"Let me see."

"It's nothing, Master. Just a little cut."

"Or splinter." Qui-Gon observed, his face the picture of  
quiet innocence.

Obi-Wan shot him a murderous look from under knotted brows.

"Don't ignore such things, young Padawan. You know how easily  
small wounds get infected during space travel. "

"It's really nothing, Master." he mumbled into his salad.

"Nevertheless, you might want to stop by the Healers and have  
it taken care of before we leave for Am'rika tomorrow. It's a  
rather savage place."

"All right, Master."

The rest of the meal proceeded with all the conviviality of a  
Daktarian wake. Qui-Gon took care of the dishes, mindful of  
his Padawan's war-wound.

After putting away the dishes, Obi-Wan finally dared to speak  
more than five consecutive words.

"Master, may I go out this evening?"

"Of course, Padawan. I trust you've finished your studies and  
our packing?"

"Yes Master."

"Then I see no reason you shouldn't have the night free. Just  
remember to get in at a decent hour. We leave early."

"Thank you Master, I will Master."

"If you stop by the Quartermaster's on your way out, you  
might want to ask them to replace that towel-bar while we're  
offworld."

Obi-Wan turned swiftly, his face flaming as he fled to the  
door.

"And Obi-Wan?"

"Yes, Master?"

"Don't forget to have the Healers look at that."

The Padawan bolted out of their quarters at a dead run.

  
       
  

  


The Wet Dream was the refuge toward which he fled. Located on  
the third sub-level, the bar was the furthest down into  
Coruscant's teeming world of nightlife a Jedi Padawan could  
be seen and still retain any veneer of respectability.  
Slouched petulantly against the blue-dyed  
fake-Tauntaun-fur-covered booth, Obi-Wan swallowed the dregs  
of his third Sith Sunrise. Garen eyed him dubiously.

"So you almost got caught. Almost doesn't count. If he ever  
asks, just tell him you were -- "

"I was what?? Practicing ballet? Anticipating a rancor attack  
in the 'fresher? Impersonating a Sovrainian slave sacrifice?  
Besides, he knows. He HAS to know. It was obvious."

"Does he know you think about him?"

Obi-Wan paled. "Force, I hope not!"

Garen was struggling with his fourth can of beer. Obi-Wan  
watched him fight with the tab top for a moment, then grabbed  
the can. With a flourish, he yanked the top free and yelled  
as his now-aching finger rasped along the metal ring. Now it  
was sliced crossways as well as punctured.

He sucked on it while Garen ordered another round. Some  
nights were just perfect for a sullen, miserable drunk.

  
       
  

  


Morning came far too early for Obi-Wan's taste. In fact, the  
only thing he could taste upon waking was the waste left  
behind by the army that had apparently bivouacked in his  
mouth overnight. Damn. He was supposed to do something today  
\-- what was it?

Qui-Gon's cheerful whistling pierced through the closed  
bedroom door and into his brain like a rusty scalpel. Ugh --  
Rusty Scalpel -- wasn't that the name of the drink he'd  
switched to last night after Garen refused to buy him another  
Sith Sunrise?

Groaning, he dragged himself into the 'fresher. He spent a  
long, mindless moment staring at the broken towel bar. Wasn't  
there something Qui-Gon had said about that?

It all came flooding back in a rush. The broken towel bar.  
The mission! And hadn't he promised Qui-Gon that he'd see the  
Healers before this morning's departure? Well, for his  
hangover maybe, but a little splinter in his finger couldn't  
possibly be worth the bother. It was probably healing on its  
own already anyway.

He reached to turn on the hot water, trying to force himself  
through his usual morning routine. He stuck his hand under  
the tap and yelled as liquid fire shot up his arm, waking him  
rudely but more effectively than any traditional stimulant.  
What in all the Sith hells...??!

The third finger of his right hand was swollen. More  
specifically, the first knuckle and a half of said digit had  
disappeared in a mass of angry red flesh, now puffed out to  
nearly twice its normal size. Experimentally he pressed at  
the wound with his thumb, and regretted it immediately -- the  
searing pain brought tears to his eyes, and he couldn't  
suppress an agonized curse.

"Obi-Wan! Please stop cursing, and finish whatever it is  
you're doing in there. That sort of behavior is unbecoming  
for a Padawan. And mind the chrono -- our transport leaves in  
fifteen minutes."

There went any vague hopes Obi-Wan had harbored about  
sneaking covertly off to the Healers before departure. He'd  
just have to hope the finger would take care of itself, and  
that the hangover would pull up stakes and move out on its  
own.

  
       
  

  


Obi-Wan suspected an ulterior motive when Qui-Gon left him to  
struggle alone with the entirety of their luggage. He managed  
to get three of the cases to the docking bay, and only  
dropped one of them on his foot. Exasperated, and now  
limping, he Force-shoved it all up the ramp and into the  
ship. Qui-Gon's disapproving glance assured a future lecture  
on the appropriate uses of the Force.

Obi-Wan groaned. He'd probably assign more meditation  
exercises as well, he thought sourly. Oh well, anything that  
didn't involve more heavy lifting was okay at the moment.

"You'll be wanting to pilot the ship, won't you, my Padawan?"  
Qui called from the cockpit.

Obi-Wan groaned again, louder. "Of course, Master. I'll be  
right there."

He trudged up to the cockpit, trying to ignore his throbbing  
head, finger, and toe.

The ship was a fairly standard Republic Level C model, small,  
sleek, and fast, its mechanics well-known to the increasingly  
miserable padawan. He reached overhead to turn on the  
controls and yelped as he caught the swollen finger on one of  
the switches. Insult was added to injuries when something  
shorted out in the control panel, delivering a brief but  
powerful shock that threatened to overload Obi-Wan's addled  
and still hung-over senses.

"That's it!" he shouted, spinning around abruptly and  
attempting to storm out of the cockpit. "I'm going back to  
bed! This day isn't worth it!"

Unfortunately, what he had pictured as a dramatic exit was  
more of a clumsy retreat, hampered by a large Jedi master in  
a very small cockpit. He shuffled past Qui-Gon toward the  
back of the ship, painfully aware of a very cold pair of blue  
eyes tracking his shameful exodus.

A small battalion of repair droids fell to work on the short,  
and had the ship space-worthy in less than an hour. The  
assigned pilot set their course, and Obi-Wan tried to curl up  
on a rock-hard pallet that passed for a bed. It had  
apparently been designed for an Ewok with scoliosis. He had  
just begun to drift to sleep when Qui-Gon entered his  
cubicle.

"Padawan, I am most disappointed in you this morning. You  
neglected to bring two of the cases from our quarters. You  
used your Force abilities in a totally frivolous, unnecessary  
fashion loading our luggage. And, you appear to be hung  
over."

Obi-Wan's eyes were enormous. "I'm sorry, Master," he  
whispered, pain creasing a line between his brows.

Qui-Gon just shook his head. "Get some rest now. I'll be back  
with something that should help your headache."

Obi-Wan curled back up into a ball of unhappy padawan. Well,  
at least the big puppy eyes worked this time. He didn't try  
that on Qui-Gon often. Usually, it was met with either icy  
contempt or dry sarcasm. He sighed and tried to roll over,  
squashing his hand between his body and the bulkhead. He  
moaned, and looked down at his finger in dismay. Now is was  
purple, and throbbed unbearably. Every time he closed his  
eyes, the back of his eyeballs throbbed along with it. It  
didn't look like he'd be falling asleep any time soon.

  
       
  

  


He eventually achieved several hours of restless sleep,  
punctuated by a series of bizarre nightmares. The worst of  
these found Obi-Wan at the Healers, aghast at the horrible  
news that his hand was about to be amputated.

"As a matter of fact," the Healer spoke cheerfully, "we'd  
better play it safe and take it off at the shoulder. You'll  
want to see the quartermaster about getting some new robes  
made. Now hold still, this won't hurt a bit..."

"Hold still, Padawan. This will hurt a bit." Qui-Gon was  
examining the wounded finger as Obi-Wan opened one eye, fully  
prepared to see his master wielding a vibro-scalpel and a  
single-sleeved robe. Finding Qui-Gon armed with nothing more  
than a pair of tweezers, a roll of gauze, and a generous  
supply of bacta-strips was a short-lived relief.

"That's quite an injury. Exactly how did you come to tangle  
with that towel bar, my Padawan?"

"I slipped," was the reply he chose after considering and  
rejecting a number of more imaginative responses. The  
absolute truth was, of course, out of the question.

The look Qui-Gon shot him fairly shouted disbelief, but his  
reply was mild. "Perhaps we should consider installing safety  
treads and a handrail. Now, let's see about removing that  
splinter."

The agony that followed was unlike anything that Obi-Wan had  
ever experienced, including a memorable double root-canal and  
his first (and last) Malastarean Pink Zombie hangover. When  
Qui-Gon did, indeed, reach for a small scalpel, Obi-Wan  
passed out cold. It was probably a good thing, as the wound  
had to be lanced before his ever-patient and dexterous Master  
could get the splinter out with the tweezers. The sight of  
the resultant gush of bodily fluids, best left undescribed,  
would have made the swooning padawan (and the authors)  
violently ill in addition to being in pain.

  
       
  

  


Obi-Wan's third waking of the day was a vast improvement over  
the previous two. Despite the remains of the hangover that  
still clung to him like a shroud, he was no longer in  
excruciating pain. Qui-Gon's efforts had reduced his finger  
to nearly normal size, and the throbbing agony had nearly  
vanished. However, the bandage around his finger was  
enormous. Worse, Qui-Gon had splinted the digit into an  
awkward upright position, thereby rendering Obi-Wan's entire  
right hand useless.

"Are you awake, Obi-Wan? We're nearly there." Qui-Gon entered  
the small sleeping area, carrying a beaker of some  
noxiously-hued liquid. Obi-Wan dreaded seeing the bilious  
green concoction. It could only be his master's pet cure-all,  
which he claimed was equally effective for hangovers, a  
variety of planetary flus, and the odd bout of chicken pox.

"Er, I'm feeling much better, Master." Obi-Wan attempted a  
grin, but Qui-Gon was having none of it. He simply held out  
the beaker, with a long stare. There was no arguing with that  
look, or the unspoken command.

"Yes, Master," Obi-Wan sighed, reluctantly accepting the  
beaker. Was it his imagination, or was the foul liquid  
actually bubbling? Realizing that there was no escape from  
his formidable master, the cowed padawan awkwardly held the  
container in his left hand, preparing to raise it to his  
lips.

Just at that moment, the small ship hit a patch of  
turbulence. The entire mixture leapt from its container and  
immediately coated Obi-Wan's rumpled tunics, as well as his  
neck, his braid, and a generous portion of the bulkhead wall.  
He had hoped to avoid the evil cure, but this had not been  
the looked-for escape route.

Qui-Gon, unmoved, raised an eyebrow. "I believe you left your  
other robes in one of the two cases you neglected to bring.  
Try to make yourself presentable. I'm going to assist our  
pilot with landing procedures."

Obi-Wan leaned back against the wall, staring blankly at  
nothing. Things were going from bad to worse.

  
       
  

  


Obi-Wan's brief acquaintance with the mission outline had not  
prepared him for his first sight of the planet's capital  
city, Stat'isld. It was a dirty, crowded, humid  
conglomeration of ugly buildings and uglier inhabitants.  
High-tech towers soared above antique hovels, and a hot wind  
blew off the muddy river moving sluggishly to a polluted sea.

"Master, are you sure that we are in the right place?"  
Obi-Wan couldn't keep the dismay from his voice. Qui-Gon  
glanced at him sharply.

"Surely you aren't implying that our pilot wasn't doing his  
job properly? Or that Arbiter Clonn gave us the wrong  
coordinates?" Qui-Gon's tone ended the conversation as they  
made their way to a decades-old, graffiti-covered hovercar.  
It quickly became apparent that the driver did not speak  
Standard, and any communicating would have to be done via  
data read-out and passionate gesturing. Qui-Gon wordlessly  
handed the datapad to his padawan and settled himself in the  
passenger compartment.

Awkwardly, Obi-Wan transferred the pad to his left hand and  
walked to the driver's side. He held it out, attempting to  
point at their destination coordinates with his index finger.  
Of course, the bandaged and splinted digit took centre stage.  
The driver shot him a murderous look, and punched the  
information sullenly into the hovercar's computer.

Settling into the seat beside Qui-Gon, Obi-Wan pondered the  
driver's hostility. He thought to ask his Master, but one  
look at his tightened lips and frosty stare dissuaded any  
inquiry.

Fortunately, the negotiations they were to oversee would take  
place in one of the city's more attractive buildings. The  
chamber itself was an odd combination of steel severity and  
rococo opulence, punctuated by absurd plaster whimsy. They  
were shown to their seats at the end of a long table by a  
chilly blonde assistant with an overly-polished smile. Her  
smile faltered as she caught sight of Obi-Wan's bandaged  
hand, and with a shocked look she hurried away.

Obi-Wan could keep silent no longer. "Master," he murmured,  
leaning close to Qui-Gon, "I cannot fathom the reasons for  
such hostility. Do these people distrust the Jedi? If so, why  
did the Senate send us here?"

Qui-Gon settled back in his chair, hands tucked into his  
sleeves. "I don't know, my Padawan. We must observe, and be  
patient."

The negotiations that followed would have been tedious under  
normal circumstances. In his weakened state, Obi-Wan found  
them agonizing. The dispute centered on wealth distribution  
and land use, and the leaders of both sides became  
progressively more strident and insulting as the process  
degenerated into a verbal brawl. Even Qui-Gon seemed at a  
loss as to how to bring peace to the warring factions.

Obi-Wan deemed it wise to remain silent. He concentrated on  
observing, as his master had advised him. Eventually, the  
shrill voices faded into an annoying hum in his ears as he  
lost interest in his surroundings and began to inventory his  
collection of physical ailments.

The back of his right ear itched. That was a new one. At  
first, he ignored it, maintaining proper Jedi dignity, his  
hands tucked serenely into his sleeves.

It itched unbearably.

Obi-Wan was suddenly aware of the silence. Startled, he  
attempted to regroup, and realized that his master had  
managed to quell the cantankerous debate by calling for a  
moment of silent reflection for all participants.

The itch got worse.

Encouraged by the reduced tension in the room, Obi-Wan  
relaxed a bit. Now they were finally getting somewhere.  
Unconsciously, he pulled his right hand free and reached to  
scratch the now-maddening itch. He was appalled to realize  
that the source was a small patch of his master's deplorable  
cure-all, matted at the top of his braid. Immediately  
relieved, he was suddenly aware of a deafening silence in the  
chamber. Unlike the previous two hours, he had an  
uncomfortable feeling that he had now become the center of  
attention.

Every single delegate, with the exception of Qui-Gon, was  
staring at him. Fixedly. Murderously. This could not be good.

The shouting erupted like a clap of thunder. Qui-Gon turned  
to his apprentice with a completely baffled expression. His  
most strenuous attempts to restore calm only inflamed the  
assembly further.

It was obviously time for the Jedi to take their leave. The  
last thing that Obi-Wan heard in Standard as Qui-Gon hustled  
him out of the room was something about the utter rudeness of  
young people at the galactic core and their indiscriminate  
use of obscene gestures.

  
       
  

  


Obi-Wan hadn't thought he would be so happy to see their  
cramped transport again quite so soon. He prepared to fling  
himself into the co-pilot's seat, but at a stern look from  
his master he returned to the sleeping cubicle. There he  
would await Qui-Gon's judgment. It was clear that he had  
committed some unpardonable sin -- he just wondered what he  
had done.

  
       
  

  


Communique from Arbiter Lucas Clonn to Jedi Master Qui-Gon  
Jinn, received en route to Coruscant:

"Well, Jinn, I've known you for many years and in many  
circumstances, and I've never seen you pull off anything  
quite like that before. After fighting like rancors for the  
better part of a year, all the delegates came together to  
commiserate on the deplorable state of the galaxy's youth,  
including their own. Your padawan's outrageous behavior  
really gave them something to rally around. What a brilliant  
move on your part! Who would have thought that flipping an  
entire chamber the bird could have brought about a treaty??  
We will read about this in the historic records someday, I'm  
sure: "Gratuitous Jedi Gesture Promotes Peace". You never  
cease to amaze me. I hope your journey back to Coruscant is  
uneventful, in the best possible way. Enjoy the Corellian  
brandy. Luc"

Qui-Gon put his head in his arms, his forehead resting on the  
console of the cockpit. The pilot glanced over at him,  
startled. Then the Jedi Master started to laugh. And laugh.  
And laugh, until tears were streaming down his face and he  
couldn't catch his breath for laughter.

  
       
  

  


Further down in the cramped little cubicle, Obi-Wan fidgeted,  
and toyed with the hem of his tunic. He wondered how long it  
would be before the axe was going to fall. What would his  
Master do? Reprimand? No, it was obviously too serious for  
such a light penalty. Would he get physical? No, that was  
never Qui-Gon's style. The scared padawan paled. Would he be  
dragged before the Council for something he couldn't begin to  
understand? He'd ruined the mission, that much he knew. Would  
they throw him out of the Order? A sob caught in the back of  
his throat. He couldn't imagine his life without the Temple,  
without Qui-Gon. A wave of despair was just cresting over his  
head when he heard the strangest noises coming from the  
cockpit. It almost sounded like...

Curious, he willed himself to walk forward. He paused at the  
door, squared his shoulders and forced his head up. Whatever  
was going to happen, he would face it like a Jedi.

As he neared the cockpit, it was clear that his Master was  
laughing. Was laughing uproariously, in a way Obi-Wan had  
only heard him laugh once before, and that had been the first  
night home from a particularly nasty mission, after several  
large bottles of Alderanian ale. He'd been profoundly shocked  
at the time, and Master Windu had hurriedly rushed him out of  
their quarters to the refractory for his dinner. If anything,  
Qui-Gon was in even more of a state now.

The Jedi Master had slumped into the co-pilot's chair, weak  
with hilarity and struggling to take a long breath. He sensed  
his padawan behind him and turned, then dissolved into  
another gale of laughter.

Obi-Wan just stared at him with enormous and confused eyes.

"Mm...mmmmaster?" he squeaked.

Qui-Gon waved a hand at him. "S'okay, padawan." His laughing  
ebbed to the occasional giggle. "It's alright. How's the  
finger?"

Obi-Wan held up his injured hand with a bemused expression.  
He was about to answer when Qui-Gon dissolved again into fits  
of mirth.

"Well," Qui-Gon gasped. "Your injury managed to solidify the  
treaty."

Obi-Wan looked at him the way a dog looks when hearing a  
high-pitched sound.

"Do you know what this gesture means, Padawan?" Qui-Gon held  
up one hand, middle finger extended upward in imitation of  
Obi-Wan's own. "Apparently, on some systems, it translates to  
something quite obscene. Am'rika is one of those places."  
Whatever Qui-Gon planned to say next was lost as he guffawed  
yet again.

Slowly the truth dawned on Obi-Wan. The mission had not been  
a failure.

Quite the contrary -- he had inadvertently saved the day!

He glanced at his injured finger, protruding upward from his  
fist. Could it mean... there was a similar gesture on  
Coruscant, using the third and index finger. The execution  
was different, but the meaning was universal: a crude  
suggestion for the recipient to indulge in undignified sexual  
activity.

Funny, Obi-Wan thought wryly, that's exactly how I got the  
injury to begin with. Could it be that the Force has a sense  
of humor?? It was too much to consider at the moment, and he  
put the philosophical question away for later contemplation.

He didn't understand exactly how such a gesture could quell  
the acrimonious debate that had separated the factions of  
Am'rika for so long, but he was sure that Qui-Gon would  
explain it to him eventually. At least it meant that his  
master was no longer angry with him.

  
       
  

  


Upon arriving back at their quarters, Obi-Wan was torn  
between curiosity to see whether the towel bar had been  
replaced, and fear of returning to the scene of the crime. He  
half-feared that Qui-Gon had secretly communicated with the  
Quartermaster and carried out his threat to install that  
handrail. Gathering his courage, he peeked into the 'fresher.

The towel bar still lay accusingly splintered into several  
pieces, his frayed bathrobe tie now dried around one section.  
Wordlessly, he cleaned it up, and contacted the  
Quartermaster.

Later that evening, after sharing a quiet meal with his  
master, Obi-Wan gathered his courage and asked one of the two  
questions uppermost in his mind.

"Master, how could an obscene gesture, deliberate or not,  
have had such an effect on our mission?"

Qui-Gon shot him a rare impish look. "I'll tell you that,  
Padawan, when you tell me how your actions had such an effect  
on the towel bar."

FIN


End file.
